


It's All Fun And Games Until Someone Ends Up With A Broken Heart

by Gleaming_Spires (cuppaktea)



Series: There's Always Time for a Drink [2]
Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Posner/Scripps on the side, Post-Canon, mostly Dakin/Irwin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuppaktea/pseuds/Gleaming_Spires
Summary: Dakin persuades Irwin to meet up for more drinks (he needs very little persuading) and takes it upon himself to sort out Scripps' love life in his spare time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write a weeny follow-on fic and ended up spawning a monster thing that's out of control. I'm posting it in chapters because each time I go to edit it, it grows - I blame Posner and Scripps for being too cute and fun to write, they keep demanding more time and even though I'm primarily a Dakin/Irwin girl I can't say no to them. 
> 
> Follows directly one from Caffeine Is The Best Catalyst For Life Experience, but both can be read as stand-alones. 
> 
> It is finished, so I will hopefully post a new bit each week, RL permitting.
> 
> Concrit always welcome

Dakin is fiddling with his hair in the shared bathroom when Scripps gets in. This is a regular occurrence, as Dakin’s ensuite bathroom doesn’t allow enough space for him to do a proper job of it, apparently. Scripps leans against the open door to chat with his friend.

 

“You out tonight?”

 

“In a manner of speaking.”

 

“Does that mean you’re coming to drinks with Pos or not?”

 

“Not. I’m seeing Tom.”

 

“Tom?”

 

“Irwin. That’s his name, Tom.”

 

“It doesn’t suit him.”

 

Dakin pauses his preening to chuckle. “No, I know.”

 

“Pos’ll be disappointed.” Scripps doesn’t like to nag, but this is the third time Dakin has stood Posner up in a month.

 

“He’ll get over it. You can give him my love if you think it’ll help.” He smirks in the mirror at Scripps.

 

“Don’t be a wanker.”

 

Scripps pauses, considering his next words.

 

“It’s not like you. Seeing him so soon again, I mean. What happened to treat ‘em mean?”

 

“He’s only in town for a couple of days. Do me a favour and grab the hairspray?”

 

“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea you coming on so strong. What if he gets the wrong idea?”

 

“Why are you so concerned about him all of a sudden? You never held much stock in him, I thought.”

 

Scripps tries not to choke in the cloud that is doubtless burning through the ozone layer as they speak.

 

“Just because I wasn’t obsessed with him, doesn’t mean I want to see the guy heartbroken.”

 

“He’s a grownup, Scripps, he’ll cope. Anyway, he already likes me, I’m not going to help him by pretending he doesn’t exist, am I? Worry about your own heartbreak or lack of it.”

 

“I’m just saying be careful.”

 

Dakin rolls his eyes.

 

“What am I going to tell Pos?”

 

“Whatever you like.” Another smirk, and a wink this time. “Tell him I got a free night’s stay in the Randolph.”

 

Scripps just shakes his head.

 

At the pub, he ends up telling Posner everything and is glad to talk to someone who doesn’t think that finding your ex-schoolteacher half naked in the kitchen is completely normal. Pos cringes and laughs along with him and buys him a drink in sympathy.

 

“He’s seeing him again tonight?!”

 

“I know!”

 

“Fuck!”

 

“I know!”

 

“I suppose it’s all right for Dakin,” Posner says. “When you’re that attractive you can have whoever you want without worrying. I feel a bit sorry for Irwin though. I did think he was more intelligent than that…. Falling for Dakin, I mean.” He adds in answer to Scripps’ questioning look.

 

“I’m not sure that’s a measure of intelligence, Pos.”

 

Posner stares gloomily into his pint.

 

“I think it must be. Once I started at uni I got over him … mostly over him.” He amends. “Or at least, I moved on. Must be the higher education.”

 

“I agree it is surprising the number of intelligent, attractive people who fall for him.”

 

“Do you think Irwin’s attractive?”

 

“No. But you know what I mean.”

 

“Would you, d’you think? If you weren’t straight?”

 

Scripps clears his throat to buy some time before he answers.

 

“I don’t know. I doubt it, he’s not really my type.”

 

*****

 

Stu finds Tom waiting for him in the hotel bar, which is gratifying. After a hello that is only mildly awkward, and a drink, Tom suggests dinner.

 

“I thought we might eat somewhere in town, the portions and the price are the wrong way around here.”

 

Stu suspects this is for his benefit but is grateful nonetheless, he really can’t afford twenty quid for a starter, or whatever it is. They end up going to a pub that he knows does a decent roast for a fiver and they end up wedged into a private table in the corner, sharing a bottle of wine while they chat.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me Scripps was your flatmate?”

 

“I got the impression that you didn’t want to talk about school. Besides, I hate all those ‘how is so and so getting on? Do you see much of them now?’ sort of questions.”

 

“I might not have asked them.”

 

“Of course you would have, you’re too polite not to. If you start asking them now, by the way, I shall have to leave.”

 

Tom’s grin is cheeky behind his wineglass. “You’re right. I don’t care.”

 

“Did anyone notice you missed out on last night at a swish hotel?”

 

“I wouldn’t say I missed out.”

 

“Did you get teased by your BBC friends?”

 

“Not at all, I said I ran into a friend and stayed over.”

 

“Is that what I am then? A friend.”

 

“I suppose that’s up to you.”

 

“I’m less familiar with my friends. To their disappointment in some cases.”

 

He swells with pride when Tom laughs.

 

“Posner still heading up your official fan club then, I take it?”

 

“I thought you weren’t going to ask those sort of questions.”

 

He gives a shrug. “Leave if you’re bored.”

 

Oh yes, Stu has definitely done a good job in bringing him out of his shell. He makes a mental note to congratulate himself properly later. Preferably when he has an audience.

 

“Posner’s alright, it’s Scripps who’s the problem.”

 

Tom’s expression turns quizzical.

 

“It’s why he gets so pissy whenever I bring someone home.”

 

“Because he’s in love with you?” Tom’s smirk is a little irksome. “You don’t think being kept up half the night is a valid reason?”

 

“Well, that’s just it. He’s kept up but not how you mean it. He’s so far in the closet he’s basically turned into an overcoat. Naturally, this makes him frustrated, and he’s angry whenever I get any.”

 

“I thought you went for girls too?”

 

“I do. The girls put him less on edge. Less of a threat, see.”

 

Tom shakes his head and lights a fag, trying not to be frightened by the realisation that this young man has had more sexual partners in the past two years than he has in his entire life.

 

“Doesn’t it damage your reputation as a stud?”

 

“What?”

 

“The …” He waves his hand around, leaving a trail of smoke, as he searches for the right word. “Experimenting.”

 

“I don’t know. I’m not sure that I have a reputation as anything. I don’t pay much attention to other people’s opinions of me.”

 

“Like fuck.” Tom snorts.

 

“Other people’s **negative** opinions of me, then. It’s true! I like who I like and I don’t see that it’s anyone else’s business. Does it put you off?”

 

Tom looks away and shakes his head, lights another fag.

 

“Did you always smoke this much?”

 

“I don’t, not really.” His eyes flick left and right as if to check if anyone is listening (who he expects of spying on them Stu can’t imagine). “I smoke when I’m nervous and talking about sex makes me nervous.”

 

Stuart grins like a cartoon cat. “Why does it make you nervous?” his voice slides into a sultry bedroom pitch. “You’re very good at it.”

 

Tom lets out a small, pleased laugh and ducks his head. Stu hopes he’s made him blush.

 

“I’m curious.”

 

“Just habit, I suppose. Blame my upbringing, if you like – not being able to talk about it with other boys when I was young. Honestly, though, I’m just shy.”

 

 _Bollocks, you are_. Stu thinks.

 

“Why couldn’t you talk about it?”

 

Tom’s smile is replaced by a line between his eyebrows.

 

“You are joking? You really don’t care about what other people say about you?”

 

“Why should I?”

 

“I would have got the shit kicked out of me if I came out as a teenager. If you’d ever had to worry about that you wouldn’t need to ask.”

 

Stu takes a second to picture him at fifteen: small and frail looking, nerdy, gay, bespectacled and just a bit ginger.

 

“I see what you mean, sorry.”

 

“That’s ok, nowadays I get propositioned in coffee shops and objectified at work."

 

 Tom hopes he isn’t imagining the indignant set of Stu’s eyebrows and tries not to grin at the thought that he might be jealous.

 

"Surprised?”

 

“Intrigued.”

 

“The wardrobe lady fancies me, I’m convinced of it.”

 

“What makes you say so?”

 

“She keeps watching me out of the corner of her eye.”

 

“And?”

 

“And she asked me out. Twice.”

 

“What did you say?”

 

“’No’, obviously. I told her I had plans.”

 

“I’m glad.” Stu pours out the last of the wine and raises his glass in a toast. “To an evening of experimenting. Speaking of experimenting, there is something I’ve never tried.”

 

“What’s that?” Tom’s voice has gone soft and husky, like Stuart remembers as they lay in his bed last night and his stomach flips.

 

“Anal.”

 

Tom’s eyes widen and he blinks a few times, obviously shocked to hear the word spoken so casually in public, before that confused line reappears between his eyebrows. He leans in, his voice hushed in embarrassment now.

 

“But last night.”

 

“No, I mean _**I** _ haven’t tried it yet.”

 

Tom’s eyes widen and his mouth makes a small perfect circle.

 

“Oh.”

 

“I’ve been meaning to. I thought tonight we might give it a go... If the idea appeals, of course.”

 

Tom swallows a few times and makes a valiant effort to conceal how turned on he is. To Stu’s delight, it isn’t remotely successful. But if he wants to play it that way.

 

“I wouldn’t mind another drink though, first.”

 

A hand on his arm stops him going to the bar.

 

“We’ll get another bottle sent up to the room if you like. Do you mean it?”

 

He’s gone that stunning shade of dark pink that Stu loves and he wonders how far down Tom’s chest the blush has crept.

 

“Come on. Let’s go and get that drink sent up to your room.”


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as the door to his room closes behind them, Tom gives in to the urge to mess up Stu’s carefully crafted hairdo. Ginning, he runs his fingers through the stiff strands until they break free of their hold and lets Stu lift his glasses carefully from his nose and put them on the desk.

 

Stu kisses him then, and it’s gentler than the last time, no biting, just a soft, wet slide of lips that melts Tom’s bones and short-circuits his brain.

 

He undresses Stu this time. Pushes the jacket from his shoulders and undoes his shirt, caressing every inch of smooth, muscled chest as it is revealed.

 

Stu is dragged in so close that Tom can just barely slide a hand down the front of his jeans. His moans reverberate into Stu’s mouth through their kiss, even though it’s Stu who’s getting rubbed off, and he is dangerously close already, even though it’s only been about twenty seconds, because Tom is _worshipping_ him, proclaiming his devotion at the altar of Stuart Dakin.

 

It’s perfect.

 

The hand that isn’t down his jeans alternately grasps and caresses every part of him it can reach while Tom’s tongue does wicked things to his mouth.

 

_The only downside of being the object of somebody’s naked adoration is the very real risk of coming in one’s pants. This would make for an anti-climax, as it were_.

 

Stu tears his face away, drawing a needy sound from Tom. He peels off the soft blue wool of Tom’s jumper, taking the shirt underneath as well.

 

Evidence of last night’s passion blooms purple across Tom’s chest. Vaguely, Stu thinks he ought to be sorry but he can’t even muster up the energy to pretend, not with possessiveness thundering through his veins like blood.

 

He brushes his fingers over each mark, pressing very lightly, enough for Tom to feel it, he knows from experience, but not to hurt.

 

“Did you get teased about this?”

 

“Oddly enough, Stuart, you’re the first person I’ve taken my shirt off for today.”

 

Tom’s voice is hushed and breathless and it’s this, more than the sarcasm that makes Stu grin.

 

He digs condoms and a sachet of lube out of his pocket and tosses them onto the bed before shucking his jeans and ordering Tom to do the same.

 

Sprawled naked on the bed he lies back to observe. Tom is shy about revealing himself; even after all they’ve already done. It’s obvious he’s trying not to cringe, but his façade of confidence is so good that only an experienced Tom Irwin watcher would notice. He arranges himself on the bed so as to reveal as little of his body as possible, cock pressing against Stu’s thigh and his own arm in front of his chest.

 

This little display of nervousness is as fetching as it is irritating and serves to bolster Stu’s already copious supply of self-confidence.

 

_Tom’s lack of self-esteem,_ he muses, _is probably what makes him a giver in bed: his generosity’s borne out of a desire to shift attention away from himself, his body (both probably). Or perhaps it’s fuelled by a need to make up for something he feels unfounded inadequacy over_.

 

Tom is watching him now, red-rimmed eyes curious and for a second Stu has the uncomfortable sensation that he can read thoughts. Long fingers idly trace the definition of Stu’s bicep.

 

“Are you sure about this?”

 

Instead of answering Stu kisses him, uses the advantage of his stronger frame to roll them and stretches out on top of Tom. He can almost feel all the broken pieces of him crunching and shifting underneath him, like he’s walking on shards of broken glass.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut and wills the thought away because it’s too much like Hector or Posner.

 

“I asked didn’t I?” He murmurs against Tom’s lips. “I want this. I want you.”

 

He pulls back, watches Tom follow him with his mouth until he is out of reach. “Why are you so scared?”

 

“I’m not scared.” His voice is tremulous and higher pitched than usual. Excitement, Stu belatedly realises, not fear.

 

“Have you done this before?”

 

The withering look he receives is unexpected in the circumstances and Stu bursts out laughing.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

“I won’t hurt you. But if you don’t like it we’ll stop. Anytime, just say and we’ll stop.”

 

He nods his agreement.

 

“You’re driving. How do you want me?”

 

“Face down on the bed.”

 

Stu scrambles to obey, belatedly realises he’s lying on the condoms and sweeps them out from under him, passes one to Tom who takes it with a murmured “Not yet”, puts it down on the bedside table. Anxiety twists in Stu’s gut as he is arranged, arse in the air with a pillow under his hips and Tom disappears behind him.

 

Tom’s mouth is hot and wet and oh so gentle as it explores the smooth skin of Stu’s back with licks and kisses and just breath. It’s achingly intimate and Stu almost doesn’t notice the moan that slips past his lips.

 

The moan turns into a gasp when Tom’s tongue slides down between his buttocks in a long broad lick, down to his balls and back up again. It is unexpected, wet, strange. He feels exposed and realises with a jolt that Tom has now seen more of him than anyone else. Then that tongue is dancing across his hole and he forgets everything but pleasure.

 

Stu’s fingers twist into the sheets. He no longer cares about how much noise he’s making, he could be waking the whole hotel floor for all he cares. Tom is stabbing and twisting with his wicked wonderful tongue and there is no room for thought. Long fingers tease his cock and gently tug at his balls before trailing back to join that tongue, easing into Stu.

 

He barely feels the first finger (and it’s nothing he hasn’t tried himself) but then there’s a stretch as there’s more - he can’t tell how many, it can’t **be** many. It serves as a reminder of what is to come and turns him on even more.

 

Tom pushes his fingers deeper and he struggles to adjust. It’s uncomfortable now and even though he had expected it, it feels a bit like a failure on his part. Even now he craves Tom’s approval, wants to impress him, please him. He wills his body to accept the welcome intrusion.

 

The tongue action ceases.

 

“Breathe” Tom pants wetly into the skin of his buttock. “It’s ok, just breathe.”

 

He obviously is breathing or he’d be dead, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to make some smart remark along those lines when Tom rubs deliberately across his prostate. He screams instead.

 

*****

“The trouble with Dakin” Pos puts down his empty glass (his third) with a thunk “is that he’s a heartless bastard.”

 

Scripps nods, wondering why they’re suddenly back on the subject.

 

“I thought you were over him.”

 

“I am, in a sense. He’s still gorgeous though. And a bastard.”

 

“What makes you say so? I’m not arguing, of course. Just curious.”

 

“He’s off now collecting Irwin’s notch on his bedpost, knowing full well it means more to Irwin than him, but not caring. Meanwhile only the day before yesterday he asked me didn’t I think you had a nice chest and started telling me how athletic he thinks you are. What’s more that girl Helen who hangs around with Akhtar hangs on his every word and he strings her along for an ego trip. I know he never has any intention of following through, he told me.”

 

Scripps is too busy choking on his beer to register the last part. A morose-looking Posner has to thump him on the back a few times before he can speak.

 

“He said what?!”

 

“Just that it’s nice to be admired but he has no interest in her as a person… she’s the new me, apparently. I wish he’d chosen someone else to share that revelation with.”

 

“Not about Helen, the other thing.”

 

Pos flushes a bit and fiddles with his empty glass. “Oh, just going into your physical charms, how he could verify your athletic physique from seeing you in the shower, how good you are at rugby, that sort of thing.”

 

“That boy seriously needs to decide if he’s going full gay.”

 

“Yeah.” Pos laughs but there’s no amusement in his big blue eyes.

 

Scripps thinks of how Dakin has taken to stealing his diary and writing appointments in it (under this Saturday _spend day with Posner_ and a few lines down _(lose virginity)_ ). After a few seconds deliberation, he decides not to bring it up with Pos.

 

“You’re right, he is a bastard.” He says “Another pint?”

 

*****

“Don’t you want to move things along now?” Stu gasps, as Tom’s fingers withdraw for a few seconds, only to return slippery and cold with lube, probing for his prostate again.

 

“Aren’t you enjoying it?” Tom kisses his words into the heated skin at the small of his back.

 

“I didn’t say that. You can’t be getting much out of it though.”

 

Tom lifts his head and Stu can **feel** his stare heavy on him for long seconds.

 

“I don’t mind waiting.” He says finally. “It’s always nice to be touched here.” He withdraws his fingers to circle Stu’s hole before diving back in, unerringly locating his prostate, pressing on it again “And **here**. The rest takes some getting used to. I want you to enjoy all of it.”

 

Stu can’t do much but pant into the pillow but after interminable minutes of this exquisite finger fucking Tom asks “Do you need to come?” and Stu manages to shake his head and grit out a cry of “Please!” which Tom, thankfully, interprets as a sign that it’s finally time to get the fuck on with it.

 

A rush of cold air makes him shiver as Tom moves away and he’s speaking and Stu’s brain struggles to catch up.

 

“Easier the first time if you…” he takes him by the shoulders and guides him upright. The sex-talk-awkwardness is resurfacing and Stu would laugh if he weren’t half out of his mind from want.

 

“It’ll be easier for you to go on top, that way you decide how deep and how fast.” Stu is entranced by the pink flush that spreads from Tom’s breastbone to his hairline, provoked by his own words. _God, he’s sweet_ (Stu will later blame the sex-addled condition of his brain for the thought).

 

The smell of latex fills the room, evoking a warm sort of happiness in his gut, as Tom tears open a condom wrapper using his teeth. He has evidently already used all the lube Stu brought because he fishes more out of the bedside drawer to coat his cock with. Stu straddles him, oddly proud that Tom thought to prepare for this.

 

The press of Tom’s cock into him is easier than he expects. It’s certainly not painful, but the pressure is incredible and he has to spend a few seconds telling himself that pressure is not necessarily bad. It takes longer than he’d like before he is able to fully accommodate it, having to inch his way down in little thrusts and wiggles. Beneath him, Tom shows admirable control in not ramming it up into him. He must be tempted to.

 

It feels an age to Stu before he is fully seated with Tom’s hipbones digging sharp against the backs of his thighs. He lets an absurd sense of achievement wash over him and thinks with a rush about what he’ll tell Scripps later. An hysterical part of him imagines sending a postcard. “View from top of cock is breathtaking. Not wishing you were here. S.D.”

 

All thoughts of Scripps are banished when Tom gently grasps his cock in one slippery hand and strokes him back to full hardness. Funny, he hadn’t noticed his erection flagging. He isn’t sure if his scattered thoughts are to blame (and really Scripps has never tempted him in the slightest), or his desperate desire to be impressively good at this, or the throbbing pressure inside him. Whatever the cause, the full force of his desire slams back into him at the touch of Tom’s hand.

 

It’s impossible to kiss at this angle, which is a shame, Tom is a fucking amazing kisser, but they both have a great view of proceedings. Stu is encouraged by the undisguised appreciation in Tom’s eyes as they rove across his body.

 

The memory of Tom riding him before is sharp and thrilling and he does his best to give a fantasy-worthy show of his own. He makes sure to show his body to the best advantage, mindful of not creating an accidental belly-roll or anything.

 

His hands skim across the hollow of Tom’s belly while he sucks on the thumb of the hand cradling his face, watches the effect of every action in Tom’s eyes. He’s an open book like this, with no glasses or rigid control left to hide behind. The sight is addictive.

 

Stu comes first, his own hand pumping his dick. He’s so keyed up from the extended foreplay he’s impressed he manages to last as long as he does and Tom is hammering his prostate with every stroke. He lets loose a yell, having just enough presence of mind to make sure his spunk paints Tom’s chest.

 

Legs turned to jelly, it takes Stu a full minute before he can even move.

 

“OK?”

 

He pants an affirmative to the whispered question and lets Tom flip them over and push his knees up by his head. It doesn’t take long, which is good because he’s really starting to feel it. Tom’s climax is almost silent, just a sighed “Fuck” that somehow manages to fill the room.

 

Silence lies over them, heavy and comfortable in the aftermath. Other than lowering his legs, Stu doesn’t move, just lets Tom lie on his chest and catch his breath.

 

Stu slowly becomes aware of a hitching, gasping quality to Tom’s breath, terror flooding through him with the awful thought that he might be crying.

 

He’s never been with a post-coital crier before and doesn’t know how one is supposed to handle it. Well, OK, he was once, but he was very drunk that time and had just rolled over and gone to sleep. Somehow he doubts this is the proper procedure. Is it better to address it or pretend nothing’s happened? In the end he opts to lie still until Tom raises his head.

 

Thankfully it’s a moot point, Tom is dry-eyed if a bit sheepish looking.

 

“Sorry about this.” He smiles, and for a second Stu decides he must have been having a cry after all before Tom pulls out, activating every hypersensitive nerve inside and out. It’s not at all pleasant.

 

“Ow! Fuck!”

 

“I did say I was sorry.”

 

“Bastard.”

 

Tom is smirking at him, the dick. “I don’t have much choice unless you wanted me to stay up there forever.”

 

Stu glares at him from where he is sprawled against the pillows. He is considering never moving again.

 

“Did you want to use the bathroom?”

 

“I’m comfortable here. Don’t you have a box of tissues?”

 

“You’re disgusting. I’m going for a shower, I’m a bit…” Tom wrinkles his nose “sticky. Wet wipes and fags in the drawer. Help yourself, I won’t be long.”

 

He watches Tom walk naked to the bathroom before cleaning himself up and idly wonders if it’s expected of him to leave now.

 

The trouble is he can’t read Tom. How could he when he’s apparently incapable of honesty regarding his own feelings? Stu doesn’t hold it against him, certainly there’s nothing calculated about it. In fact, he’s sure Tom is guilty of deceiving himself more than anyone else. It’s part of what makes him so interesting, but it does make it hard to understand what he wants when he probably has no idea himself.

 

He decides not to over-think it and settles in with a smoke.

 

Tom is back before he finishes - so much for wanting him to leave, at least. His skin is warm and damp, like the hair at the nape of his neck when he leans in for a kiss.

 

Stu puts a hand up to push him away. “No thanks, I know where that mouth’s been.”

 

Tom laughs. “I brushed my teeth.”

 

“You tried a bit of that last night too. Do you like it?”

 

Tom snuggles under his arm to rest his head against Stu’s chest and Stu pushes down the tight feeling stirring inside it and offers Tom a draw on his fag.

 

“I like the way it feels. I’ve never done any kind of oral sex because I like the taste of it. I do it because I want to make the other person feel good.”

 

“I felt good.”

 

It doesn’t need saying, but Stu says it anyway because he can’t bear how fucking fragile Tom is.

 

Tom grins a rare Cheshire cat grin so it’s worth it.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“A bit sore, relaxed though.”

 

“That’s normal.”

 

“I’m not sorry we did it if that’s what you’re asking. Have you done it with many virgins?”

 

“You’re not a virgin, Stuart.”

 

“You know what I mean though.”

 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks instead of a proper answer and Stu lets him this time.

 

Tom tastes of mint and smoke and it should be disgusting but Stu frames his face in his hands and pulls him closer, licking into his mouth.

 

“I’m up for another round if you are.”

 

“I’m shattered. Early start tomorrow anyway.”

 

“D’you want me to go?”

 

The response is an arm thrown across his chest. Within seconds Tom’s breathing evens out in sleep.

 

Stu lies awake for a little while, afraid to move in case he disturbs his...lover? Friend maybe? More than just a fantasy now, at any rate.

 

The skin beneath Tom’s eyes is smudged with purple shadows and the lids themselves are red. It’s funny _,_ he’d always noticed that before but never thought about what it meant. Permanently shattered it seems, perhaps unable to sleep well unless fucked into oblivion first. Stu is more than happy to oblige.

 

“God, you’re a mess aren’t you?” he whispers. He nearly runs his hand through Tom’s hair but thinks better of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Scripps is frustrated and Dakin completely fails to help, but rather enjoys himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is up sooner than I expected, partly because RL is being kind, and partly because I'm sick of staring at it until my eyes go crossed. 
> 
> If anybody feels like telling me what works or doesn't work for you, do feel free. Much like Scripps, I am full of confused feelings about it.

 

Scripps dreams he is yelling at Timms on a train platform, something about taking something from him and hiding it, he walks away in disgust only to find the back of his coat doused in water. When he turns Dakin is standing behind him, a menacing look on his face, holding a super-soaker. “Fuck off, I have a train to catch!” he shouts at him. Posner is motioning to him from inside the train to hurry because it’s about to depart, but the carriage is crowded with couples who won’t move aside for him to get in. He tries to explain to them that if they just moved their arms from where they are embracing by the doors he will be able to squeeze in beside them but they won't budge. Oddly, Rudge stands right in front of him, his head resting on Mrs Lintott’s breasts.

 

Pos takes his hand. “Come on” He says and leads him up to the roof.

 

The scene shifts and changes around him. He is on the roof of the train with Pos, the countryside hurtling past, they are both naked and he is pushing into Posner. The wet sounds of sex fill his brain and it feels so good he thinks he could die right now and be happy. The trouble is Posner is so slippery with sweat that he can’t get a grip on him, no matter how hard he tries, and Posner is begging him to please, please fuck him harder, make him come, only he can’t. They are slipping from the roof and when he calls out to warn him Pos seems not to care, only pleads to let him come. Scripps’ dick slips out and he nearly screams with frustration.

 

The scene shifts again: they are on his bedroom floor at home this time, the floorboards familiar under his fingers. He grasps the back of Posner’s neck and pushes him to the floor. Pos’ gasp as he slams into him is his undoing and he comes inside his friend with a shout.

 

It’s the shout that wakes him. He knows what’s happened before he finds the slimy mess on his sheets of course, but it doesn’t exactly cheer him up to find it.

 

“Shit.”

 

He’s blaming the cider. He never normally drinks the stuff but Pos – well… maybe leave that train of thought for a while.

 

He cleans himself up and strips the bed in a hurry– thankfully the bed seems to have taken most of the damage - then storms off towards the kitchen, soiled sheets under his arm.

 

“Oh dear.” Hearing Dakin’s teasing voice from the settee is really the last thing he needs right now. He concentrates on loading the machine and offering up a prayer for patience.

 

“Good morning, I take it?”

 

“Say nothing, Dakin. Why are you here anyway, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

 

“Nothing on until ten, relatively free day anyway.”

 

“Why aren’t you with Irwin? Please tell me he kicked you out.”

 

“He had to check out of the hotel at about six this morning. I’ll have a cup of tea if you’re making one, ta.”

 

Scripps rolls his eyes but puts the kettle on anyway.

 

“What about you? Good night out with Pos?”

 

Scripps is conveniently rummaging in the fridge for milk and he hopes Dakin falls for his studied indifference since he can’t see his face.

 

“Not bad, thanks, caught up a bit.”

 

“How’s he doing? Anyone new on his lovelorn horizon?”

 

“If you’d just meet up with him you could ask him yourself!”

 

“I didn’t mean to stand you both up. You must admit I had a once in a lifetime opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

 

“Yes, Stu. I appreciate sex is so rare for you.”

 

“What’s got you in such a mood this morning? I would have thought this is a red letter day for you already.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Only asking. You know if you’d just have one off the wrist from time to time it wouldn’t happen.”

 

“It doesn’t happen now…. Not for ages anyway. I’m blaming the cider.”

 

“I thought it’d be Posner’s fault somehow.”

 

Scripps studies him carefully but the comment seems to be innocently meant. Not that you could ever tell with Dakin. Scripps carries the tea over to the lounge area and perches in an armchair as Dakin is stretched across the whole of the settee, looking pensive and disinclined to move.

 

Scripps sips at his tea in silence for a bit before curiosity gets the better of him.

 

“How’d it go then?”

 

“Good. I like him.”

 

“So, I believe, you’ve said.”

 

“I don’t get him though. He makes no sense.”

 

“No, I never thought he did.”

 

“Dick.” Chuckling, Dakin chucks a cushion at his head. “I need to get ready for my tutorial. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

 

True to his word, Dakin spends the afternoon lying on Scripps’s bed, fiddling with an unlit cigarette while Scripps tries to work on his latest essay and resign himself to the fact that however many times he explains that oral sex isn’t the same as safe sex unless you use protection, Dakin will always need to be told one more time.

 

“He’s really opened my eyes technique-wise. I would never have imagined the act of being fingered produced such satisfactory results. Not to mention my having discovered a completely uncharted form of oral sex.”

 

He has been going on in this vein for what seems like hours - but is in reality only forty minutes if the clock on Scripps’s desk is to be believed - with Scripps listening mostly in awed and envious silence, here though he has to interject.

 

“You didn’t discover it! It’s only uncharted by **you** anyway.”

 

“Spoken by the sexpert.” He pauses for a moment, his lips pursed in thought.

 

“Do you know what the problem with him is though?”

 

“That he used to be your history teacher?” Scripps asks sweetly, ignoring the fact that the question is obviously rhetorical. Dakin remains unamused.

 

“No! He has no self-confidence. I don’t understand how he can be so sexually accomplished and yet so timid about it.”

 

“It’s probably what I imagine is his pre-pubescent-girl-body.”

 

“I will light this here on your bed!” Stu threatens in spite of his laughter. “Spend a lot of time imagining it, do you?”

 

Scripps only laughs back in response.

 

“Oh, by the way, you’ll have to make yourself scarce this weekend. Tonight actually, too.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

Giving up any hope of getting some work done, Scripps turns to face him.

 

“I invited him to spend the weekend here. Work stopped paying for the hotel this morning and it seemed rude to ask him to stay on at his own expense.”

 

“Very noble of you, Stu. Why do I have to leave?”

 

Dakin has the gall to look at him as if he’s simple. “We’re going to be shagging. Loudly, I hope, and you make him nervous. Go and stay with Posner.”

 

“Well thanks, I know who my mates are anyway.”

 

Stu adopts his ‘innocent’ face, which never bodes well. “Aren’t you supposed to be spending the day there tomorrow anyway? You may as well sleep over.”

 

“You writing it in my diary doesn’t make it an actual social engagement, you know.”

 

“You should consider what I write in your diary more seriously.”

 

“Dakin.” Scripps’ voice carries a note of warning. Sadly Dakin doesn’t choose this moment as the first time to heed it.

 

“It doesn’t hurt if that’s what’s worrying you.”

 

“So you said. I am not having sex with Pos!”

 

Dakin props himself up on his elbows. “Why not? I’m serious. You like him don’t you?”

 

“ **I’m** serious, leave it. I’m happy for your loss of anal virginity and I’ll talk to Pos about tonight but you keep out of my sex life.”

 

“You don’t have a sex life.”

 

Scripps picks up his empty coffee cup and heads to the kitchen.

 

“Shouldn’t be hard to keep out of it then.” He calls over his shoulder.

 

Stu decides he needs a new plan.

 

*****

 

Dinner ordered, hair artfully unstyled in deference to Tom’s apparent dislike of the hairspray, Stu leaves enough time to act casual before Tom is due to show up. He is dressed to impress in a new deep purple shirt, open to the third button to show a peek of chest hair, and in his tightest jeans. Scripps tells him he’s a tart and he takes that as encouragement.

 

One of Stu’s promises to entice Tom over was that he would cook dinner but, to be fair, he really wasn’t thinking beyond getting him to agree to stay for the weekend. Surely the sentiment was the same behind a takeaway, anyway.

 

After all, cooking dinner held a smack of desperation and left less time for getting ready. When he puts this to Scripps he tells him that he **is** desperate, so he needn't worry. Dakin ignores him and phones the Indian.

 

Scripps is banished to Posner’s for the weekend with a line of condoms secreted in his wash-bag. Banished is perhaps the wrong word, stormed off in a huff is closer to the truth, or the closest thing to a huff for Scripps. The condoms are all Stu’s doing, of course, and he expects further drama once they’re discovered. He makes a mental note to sneak them back tomorrow and count them.

 

Tom is late arriving, he had mentioned a drinks thing he had on, so Stu isn’t worried. All the same, he’s fed up of pretending to be casual by the time the doorbell goes. Careful not to spring up and answer it immediately, he leaves Tom standing on the mat with his overnight bag and a bottle of wine even after he opens the door.

 

Taking Tom’s face in his hands, Stu kisses him in the hallway before he moves aside to let him in. The semi-public settling, and Tom’s discomfort about it it, bringing a sense of visceral enjoyment that burns in his stomach like alcohol.

 

Tom’s mouth tastes of beer and Stu decides that lager goes better than wine with curry anyway, and pulls him inside.

 

It’s all very domestic at first. Drinks poured and food plated up, they sit at the table and take it in turns to ask each other about their day.

 

“After the accident…” Stu begins out of the blue during a lull in the conversation, his eyes fixed on a point above Tom’s left shoulder "...I never asked how you were. I’m sorry.” 

 

“It’s fine.” Tom says reflexively, he isn’t even sure if it’s true because he doesn’t want to poke at those feelings, he **doesn’t** poke at them. “It was just a broken leg, it’s healed now.”

 

“I know.” And of course he knows, he’s seen the scars: gouges from the road surface all along that leg, has stroked them, run his tongue along them, even.

 

“I thought it’d be crude. ‘Sorry for your near death experience. Fancy a shag?’”

 

“You could’ve just said hi.”

 

“I know. I was...” _Scared_ he doesn’t say. Scared of what he would see, scared that it could have been him, scared that Irwin would blame him, that he wouldn’t want to see him, that he’d be worse than Stu expected.

 

“It’s alright, really. I appreciate the apology, but it’s alright.” It’s true, Tom realises as he says it.

 

*****

 

Scripps is pissed and they haven’t even left the flat yet. It might be something to do with the combination of beer, cider and supermarket brand whiskey they’ve been drinking. Or rather, that he’s been drinking; he’s never been any good at drinking games.

 

Pos leans in to play his round and suddenly he is close enough for Scripps to count every freckle - not that that’s possible because he’s seeing double. Pos’ pink lips curve in amusement as he plays his card and orders Scripps to take another drink.

 

He leans forward and plants a kiss sloppily on Pos’ mouth. At least, that’s what he’s aiming for, in reality his lips end up on that space between his nose and his upper lip. And for a second he feels triumphant until Posner pulls back in shock and gasps, “what are you doing?” in a voice normally reserved for Victorian heroines.

 

Scripps feels the blood drain from his face. If he weren’t so pissed he expects he’d faint.

 

“I’ve never done it before. I thought… I thought…” Pos’ eyelashes are so long and pale against the ivory of his cheek and Scripps can’t even get his words out, can’t think straight. But Posner is listening at least, waiting for him to explain and not running away.

 

“I… I want to.” Scripps stammers. His stomach chooses this moment to rebel against the poisonous cocktail inside it and he almost makes it to the loo before vomiting violently.

 

Posner is left sitting on the living room floor trying to work out what on Earth just happened.

 

*****

 

Tom has always doubted his own ability to be alluring, being laughed at several times in the past when he has given it a go certainly hasn’t helped ( _“awkward’_ springs to mind, it being an ex’s favourite word. _“Cute”_ is one he’s heard a lot too - he doubts that it’s code for devastatingly sexy, unfortunately. _“Dorky”_ is one he tries not to dwell on). However, it seems to work on Stuart who is happy to be manoeuvred into a horizontal position on the sofa after dinner for a kissing session reminiscent of teenage years.

 

Up close, Stuart’s mouth looks like a doodle of a mouth: ludicrously sensuous lips framing a dimpled smirk. His eyes, on the other hand, are like something torn from a glossy magazine advert. Never has the phrase ‘bedroom eyes’ been more apt, in Tom’s opinion. Stuart is halfway between an underwear model and a matinee idol.

 

Troublingly, he is wearing a pensive look on his face that, in Tom’s limited experience, foreshadows the dropping of a conversation bomb. Most vividly in Tom’s memory is the time it was followed by a proposition to suck him off in his own classroom. It’s this memory he blames for the dual feelings of arousal and terror that swim in his gut.

 

“It’s come to my attention,” Stuart begins eventually, and Tom would almost say that he seems nervous except for the still present smirk. “that I could do better on the old foreplay side of things. Was it awful for you?”

 

Tom is genuinely taken aback. “The sex? No. It was – no. Why would you think that?”

 

“Compared to your tonguing and teasing, I mean. I didn’t do any of that.”

 

Jesus, Tom is bright red, he can feel it.

 

“I enjoyed it. You’ve been with men before, I thought.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s always been pretty fast and functional.” Stuart’s eyes are black from this distance and fixed on Tom’s mouth. “You were the first man I ever thought about that way.” He says, his voice pitched deep and intimate.

 

Tom closes his eyes, screws up every ounce of self-worth he has and carefully doesn’t say ‘I love you.’ Instead, he unfastens Stuart’s jeans, and sucks him off, signing his name on the head of Stuart’s cock with his tongue, capitalizing the ‘T’ and the ‘I’ with long licks from base to tip.

 

When he’s done he crawls back up the sofa and kisses the taste of come back into Stuart’s mouth, lets Stuart bring him off with leisurely strokes and dirty whispers.

 

They lie squashed together on the sofa afterwards, kissing drowsily, jeans undone and shirts open, neither able to summon up the energy to actually strip, touching without any urgency. In the absence of a fag, Tom’s fingers toy idly with the wiry hairs on Stuart’s stomach. He is just feeling pleasantly weightless and warm and there’s a hot hand rubbing at a tight muscle in his lower back that adds to the sense of relaxation.

 

Stuart pokes him in the shoulder. Hard.

 

“Oi don’t fall asleep. Can I ask you something?” impervious to Tom’s grumbling, he continues without waiting for a real response. “How did you know? About you being homosexual I mean... I’m asking for a friend.”

 

Tom laughs. “Anybody else and I wouldn’t believe them. You’re asking for Scripps?”

 

“Yeah. When did you realise?”

 

“The same as anyone else, I imagine.” He fumbles for his glasses and blinks owlishly as he settles them back in place. “I reached puberty and started having crushes on people – actors, singers, boys at school. Never women. It wasn’t a difficult conclusion to reach. Anyway, everyone else seemed to get the memo before I did.”

 

“How old were you when you got it?”

 

“I dunno, about thirteen, fourteen, I guess.”

 

“Scripps is a late bloomer we can surmise.”

 

Tom’s chuckle is a bit uncomfortable this time. “If he is, I’m sure he’ll work it out. Unless the issue is him being immune to you I don’t see what you can do about it.”

 

He tries not to sound jealous but can’t disguise his look of relief when Stu replies “don’t be daft.”

 

“Must be nice, living with such a good friend.”

 

“It’s good to have someone to talk to I suppose. He does have his downsides though. Sexual repression and mother-henning, namely.”

 

“How come he doesn’t let you smoke?”

 

“Oh, his dad had cancer.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“It’s ok, it’s not like he didn’t get better. Not everything’s about him.”

 

“You’re an arsehole.”

 

*****

 

“Dakin’s an arsehole!”

 

Scripps is very clear on this point as he’s lowered into Pos’s bed – in a decidedly non-sexy way.

 

“You kissed me, and now you’re talking about Dakin?”

 

“he said I should just go for it, y’know?”

 

“You talk to Dakin about me?” Scripps misses the pleased note of surprise in Pos’s voice as he continues to mutter himself into unconsciousness.

 

“Knew it’d ruin things… arsehole.”

 

“Don?” A snore is the only response.

 

Leaving a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol beside the bed, Posner takes himself off to his makeshift bed on the sofa with a sigh.

 

If Don remembers it in the morning he doesn’t say anything. He cleans up the bathroom though and makes French toast to apologise for the mess and they watch Brief Encounter with the curtains closed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is angsting from everyone but Posner, who is quickly fed up of it (we all know he's the king of angst anyway and all of it is amateurish when compared to his high standards).

 

The weekend is pleasant, Tom supposes, in the way that a weekend spent with a man that one is hopelessly in love with (and apparently unable to get over) can’t fail to be pleasant when it involves copious amounts of mind-blowing sex. It’s excruciatingly painful in exactly the same kind of way. At the end of it they’ve grown closer, he thinks. He at least feels secure in labelling Stuart as 'a friend’ now. This only makes things worse.

 

On Sunday they both make the standard “if you’re ever in the area” and “feel free to call whenever” noises before he offers Stuart his hand to shake in a goodbye that holds more than a touch of finality. On the train back to London he leans his head against the window and tries to sleep so he won’t cry before he gets home.

 

There are two angry messages on his answerphone from his sister – he’s completely forgotten he was supposed to be meeting her in town for lunch. She’s gone home apparently and if he isn’t dead he’s in for it. He should call her back and apologise, but he’s tired and heartbroken and sore and he’s barely eaten anything but cuppa soup and spunk since the obviously-not-homemade curry on Friday. Worst of all, tomorrow he has to face the world like nothing’s happened. He takes himself to bed, ignoring the voice in his head telling him that things went better than he could ever have realistically hoped for.

 

*****

 

Hungover, Scripps gets back to a flat with no trace of Dakin in it. He doesn’t actually hear from Stu at all for the next few days and finds out from Akhtar that he is holed up at Helen’s flat. This is annoying because he needs to shout at him.

 

*****

 

In the end, it’s Scripps who pushes things to their crisis, mostly, if he’s honest, because he’s bored of the whole fucking saga. Stu has apparently fucked his way through half of his college in a month ( _the insecure half_ he thinks unkindly, as he is inundated with variations on a theme of “can you just ask him to call me?”) and any attempt he makes to talk to Stu about Irwin is met with stroppy evasion.

 

After a long chat with Pos (because isn’t it always easier to sort out other people’s lives?), he sends Irwin an invitation to the New Years party he and Dakin are planning. It’s not even Christmas yet, but it’s the nearest occasion they decide they can get away with. He doesn’t get a response of course. No, in the end, he has to sneak Irwin’s number out of Stu’s sock drawer and go round Posner’s to ring him so Stu won't overhear.

 

He feels like a kid making prank calls with Pos hovering over his shoulder, trying hard to listen in and not be heard at the same time.

 

Irwin’s protests are centred on it ' _not being a good idea'_ , but after repeatedly pushing him to back up this argument, Scripps eventually wears him down.

 

“…He’s not interested in me.” A deep sigh crackles down the line. “At least not in the same way I am in him.”

 

“How do you know if you don’t ask him?” _What a fucking hypocrite_ , the voice in his head sneers at him.

 

After he puts the phone down he can’t look Pos in the face.

 

“He’ll come.” He says, unnecessarily because their ears had been practically joined together next to the receiver. Pos grins though as if it’s news to him.

 

“Here’s hoping Dakin doesn’t find someone else over the Christmas hols.”

 

“I think he’ll manage to find several, as long as none of them holds his interest for long it shouldn’t be too much of a disaster.”

 

“You and I will just have to stick close by to keep an eye on him then” Pos announces cheerily, and Scripps thanks his lucky stars to have a ready-made excuse to pop round whenever he likes over the upcoming break. Annoying as Dakin’s dramas can be this one is working out quite well for him.

 

They end up inviting the whole gang, which is probably dumb (this only occurs to Scripps when Timms walks in, clearly off his tits) because Irwin looks about as comfortable there as a nun at an Ann Summers party.

 

Stu is fetching beer from the bathtub when Irwin walks in and, on the premise of fetching him a drink, Scripps shows him through to the bathroom, Pos at his heels.

 

“What’s this?" Stu is confused; Scripps is just relieved they haven’t walked in on him getting off with someone.

 

“Christmas present.” Posner pipes up, giving Tom a little shove forwards.

 

Stu wipes his wet hands absently on his jeans.

 

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

 

“Scripps invited me.”

 

“I didn’t know the two of you were in touch.” Stu shoots an accusing look at Scripps, but it’s Tom who answers.

 

“We aren’t. He seemed to think you’d want to see me.”

 

“How have you been?”

 

Miserable. Lonely. “Fine.”

 

Stu nods and they lapse into uncomfortable silence.

 

“Oh for – This isn’t fucking Brief Encounter! I’ve never seen two grown men make such a fuss over a little train journey!” three puzzled looks are turned on Posner who sighs deeply and continues as if they are all being wearisomely stupid, gesticulating flourishingly as he speaks.

 

“Dakin, this is Tom. Tom is an otherwise intelligent man who is head over heels for you. Tom, this is Stuart. He’s borderline obsessed with you but is hung up on the idea of himself as a stud muffin, and would rather be a dick to his friends and shag everybody he’s never had any interest in than admit he misses you. You live less than an hour away from each other by train. I’m sure you can work something out.”

 

Irwin’s face is a curious mix of having had all his Christmases come early and wishing he were dead and Stu frankly looks constipated – his go-to expression when he’s lost control. Scripps observes both of these things through tears of laughter.

 

“Bloody hell!” Dakin eventually manages. “Who’s been giving Pos alcohol?”

 

Posner swings the door shut on both of them.

 

“Right, now that’s sorted, I want a word, Don.”

 

*****

 

Tom has examined every inch of the bathroom that isn’t occupied by Stu before it becomes clear that he isn’t going to be the one to break the painful silence.

 

“They haven’t locked us in.”

 

“There’s nothing interesting happening out there.”

 

Stu smiles, slow and predatory, and hands Tom a beer from the icy bath. “Maybe we should stay in here, then.”

 

They sit, Tom on the closed lid of the loo, Stu perching on the edge of the bath.

 

“Do you tell Scripps everything?”

 

“He’s my mate.” He says as if that explains everything. “Besides he doesn’t have much going on himself. Why? Does it bother you?”

 

“A bit.”

 

“Sorry.” His tone implies that he is anything but.

 

“He’s not wrong. Posner I mean. About me.”

 

“No, I know. Drunk little fucker. Do you think we can work something out?”

 

“You don’t want to.”

 

“Is that a fact?”

 

Tom forgoes answering in favour of tapping at the ring pull on his drink with his thumbnail. He hopes it’s irritating.

 

“I enjoyed it when you stayed here. You liked it too, right?”

 

“Of course I liked it too but… that’s hardly… it’s not the same as a …a _relationship_.”

 

“I have been in one before, you know. I do know the difference between that and a dirty weekend.” The choice of words brings Tom’s focus sharply onto him.

 

“What I’m saying is I’d like to give it a try. If that’s not something you’d be interested in just say the word.”

 

Tom looks back at his can.

 

“Didn’t think so. But I don’t want this to be something else you’re nudged into. I want you to want me. I want to give it a try, so what is it to be? Yes or no?”

 

He’s like a devil in a story, Tom thinks, offering some awful, wonderful thing, the true cost only to be discovered later on. Or a siren maybe, terrifying and tempting, just waiting for him to crash into the rocks.

 

“It means more to me than it does to you.”

 

“That’s quite a subjective viewpoint, isn’t it?”

 

“What if it doesn’t work out?”

 

“You’re worried you’ll be miserable? Because you’re happy now, are you?”

 

He makes it sound so simple. Not for the first time Tom is struck by the beautiful, frightening confidence of him. Really looking at Stuart he is breathtaking and arousing and he looks disgustingly, _illegally_ young. Tom is sure he was never that young, never had that earnest simplicity about him.

 

He goes and sits next to Stuart on the edge of the bath, smiles when Stuart squeezes his thigh and doesn’t take his hand away.

 

“How come you’ve never asked me how old I am?”

 

“It doesn’t matter. I like you, that’s all that’s important.”

 

Again with that impish smirk, simultaneously boyish and sinful, breaking the world down into the much simpler World According to Dakin. Tom closes his eyes and kisses him.

 

“Yes. I want to give it a try.”

 

“Just as well, it’s not often you’d be lucky enough to catch me unattached. Best to take the chance while you can.”

 

Tom gives him a sharp shove towards the icy water but catches him before he can fall in. “Arse.”

 

Stuart is laughing with him, holding onto him and he feels lighter than he’s ever felt.

 

“Stay there, I’m going to lock us in.”

 

When they make their happy and slightly dishevelled return to the living room, Frankie Goes to Hollywood is blaring out from the stereo and Stu immediately spots Scripps in the corner of the room, squeezed into an armchair with Pos, his tongue apparently down Pos’ throat and Pos’ hands quite obviously down the back of his jeans.

 

Stu raises his hands to start clapping but is stopped by Tom’s hand on his elbow.

 

“No. Leave them alone, you can tease them all you like tomorrow.”

 

A dangerous glint in his eye, Stu just shrugs.

 

“Oi Jimmy!” He shouts, moving off in the direction of where Lockwood is chatting to a pretty blonde girl. “Come here, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Brief Encounter, so does Posner, hence it getting more than one mention.
> 
> This is all done now, so thanks for reading :)


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